CHAPTER II.
Ev’n in the spring and playtime of the year, That calls th’ unwonted villager abroad, With all her little ones, a sportive train, To gather king-cups in the yellow mead, And prink their heads with daisies.
COWPER.
THE dame-school, which was about a mile from the hamlet, was not a showyedifice; but it was reverenced as much by the young race of villagescholars as if it had been the most stately mansion in the land; it was alow roofed, long, thatched tenement, sheltered by a few reverend oaks,under which many generations of hopeful children had gambolled in theirturn.
The close shaven green, which sloped down from the hatch-door of theschoolroom, was paled round with a rude paling, which, though decayed insome parts by time, was not in any place broken by violence.
The place bespoke order and peace. The dame who governed was wellobeyed, because she was just and well beloved, and because she was everglad to give well earned praise and pleasure to her little subjects.
Susan had once been under her gentle dominion, and had been deservedlyher favourite scholar. The dame often cited her as the best example tothe succeeding tribe of emulous youngsters. She had scarcely opened thewicket which separated the green before the schoolroom door from thelane, when she heard the merry voices of the children, and saw the littletroup issuing from the hatchway, and spreading over the green.
“Oh, there’s Susan!” cried her two little brothers, running, leaping, andbounding up to her; and many of the other rosy girls and boys crowdedround her, to talk of their plays; for Susan was easily interested in allthat made others happy; but she could not make them comprehend, that, ifthey all spoke at once it was not possible that she could hear what wassaid.
The voices were still raised one above another, all eager to establishsome important observation about ninepins, or marbles, or tops, or bowsand arrows, when suddenly music was heard and the crowd was silenced.The music seemed to be near the spot where the children were standing,and they looked round to see whence it could come. Susan pointed to thegreat oak-tree, and they beheld, seated under its shade, an old manplaying upon his harp. The children all approached—at first timidly, forthe sounds were solemn; but as the harper heard their little footstepscoming towards him, he changed his hand and played one of his most livelytunes. The circle closed, and pressed nearer and nearer to him; some whowere in the foremost row whispered to each other, “He is blind!” “What apity!” and “He looks very poor,—what a ragged coat he wears!” saidothers. “He must be very old, for all his hair is white; and he musthave travelled a great way, for his shoes are quite worn out,” observedanother.
All these remarks were made whilst he was tuning his harp, for when heonce more began to play, not a word was uttered. He seemed pleased bytheir simple exclamations of wonder and delight, and, eager to amuse hisyoung audience, he played now a gay and now a pathetic air, to suit theirseveral humours.
Susan’s voice, which was soft and sweet, expressive of gentleness andgood nature, caught his ear the moment she spoke. He turned his faceeagerly to the place where she stood; and it was observed, that whenevershe said that she liked any tune particularly he played it over again.
“I am blind,” said the old man, “and cannot see your faces; but I knowyou all asunder by your voices, and I can guess pretty well at all yourhumours and characters by your voices.”
“Can you so, indeed?” cried Susan’s little brother William, who hadstationed himself between the old man’s knees. “Then you heard _my_sister Susan speak just now. Can you tell us what sort of person sheis?”
“That I can, I think, without being a conjurer,” said the old man,lifting the boy up on his knee; “_your_ sister Susan is good-natured.”The boy clapped his hands. “And good-tempered.” “_Right_,” said littleWilliam, with a louder clap of applause. “And very fond of the littleboy who sits upon my knee.” “O right! right! quite right!” exclaimed thechild, and “quite right” echoed on all sides.
“But how came you to know so much, when you are blind?” said William,examining the old man attentively.
“Hush,” said John, who was a year older than his brother, and very sage,“you should not put him in mind of his being blind.”
“Though I am blind,” said the harper, “I can hear, you know, and I heardfrom your sister herself all that I told you of her, that she wasgood-tempered and good-natured and fond of you.”
“Oh, that’s wrong—you did not hear all that from herself, I’m sure,” saidJohn, “for nobody ever hears her praising herself.”
“Did not I hear her tell you,” said the harper, “when you first cameround me, that she was in a great hurry to go home, but that she wouldstay a little while, since you wished it so much? Was not thatgood-natured? And when you said you did not like the tune she likedbest, she was not angry with you, but said, ‘Then play William’s first,if you please,’—was not that good-tempered?”
“Oh,” interrupted William, “it’s all true; but how did you find out thatshe was fond of me?”
“That is such a difficult question,” said the harper, “that I must taketime to consider.” The harper tuned his instrument, as he pondered, orseemed to ponder: and at this instant, two boys who had been searchingfor birds’ nests in the hedges, and who had heard the sound of the harp,came blustering up, and pushing their way through the circle, one of themexclaimed, “What’s going on here? Who are you, my old fellow? A blindharper! Well, play us a tune, if you can play ever a good one—playme—let’s see, what shall he play, Bob?” added he turning to hiscompanion. “Bumper Squire Jones.”
The old man, though he did not seem quite pleased with the peremptorymanner of the request, played, as he was desired, “Bumper Squire Jones”;and several other tunes were afterwards bespoke by the same rough andtyrannical voice.
The little children shrunk back in timid silence, and eyed the brutal boywith dislike. This boy was the son of Attorney Case; and as his fatherhad neglected to correct his temper when he was a child, as he grew up itbecame insufferable. All who were younger and weaker than himself,dreaded his approach, and detested him as a tyrant.
When the old harper was so tired that he could play no more, a lad, whousually carried his harp for him, and who was within call, came up, andheld his master’s hat to the company, saying, “Will you be pleased toremember us?” The children readily produced their halfpence, and thoughttheir wealth well bestowed upon this poor, good-natured man, who hadtaken so much pains to entertain them, better even than upon thegingerbread woman, whose stall they loved to frequent. The hat was heldsome time to the attorney’s son before he chose to see it. At last heput his hand surlily into his waistcoat pocket and pulled out a shilling.There were sixpennyworth of halfpence in the hat. “I’ll take thesehalfpence,” said he, “and here’s a shilling for you.”
“God bless you, sir,” said the lad; but as he took the shilling which theyoung gentleman had slily put _into the blind man’s hand_, he saw that itwas not worth one farthing. “I am afraid it is not good, sir,” said thelad, whose business it was to examine the money for his master.
“I am afraid, then, you’ll get no other,” said young Case, with aninsulting laugh.
“It never will do, sir,” persisted the lad; “look at it yourself; theedges are all yellow! you can see the copper through it quite plain.Sir, nobody will take it from us.”
“That’s your affair,” said the brutal boy, pushing away his hand. “Youmay pass it, you know, as well as I do, if you look sharp. You havetaken it from me, and I shan’t take it back again, I promise you.”
A whisper of “that’s very unjust,” was heard. The little assembly,though under evident constraint, could no longer suppress theirindignation.
“Who says it’s unjust?” cried the tyrant, sternly, looking down upon hisjudges.
Susan’s little brothers had held her gown fast, to prev
ent her frommoving at the beginning of this contest, and she was now so muchinterested to see the end of it, that she stood still, without making anyresistance.
“Is anyone here amongst yourselves a judge of silver?” said the old man.
“Yes, here’s the butcher’s boy,” said the attorney’s son; “show it tohim.” He was a sickly-looking boy, and of a remarkably peacefuldisposition. Young Case fancied that he would be afraid to give judgmentagainst him. However, after some moments’ hesitation, and after turningthe shilling round several times, he pronounced, “that, as far as hisjudgment went, but he did not pretend to be a downright _certain sure_ ofit, the shilling was not over and above good.” Then to Susan, to screenhimself from manifest danger, for the attorney’s son looked upon him witha vengeful mien, “But here’s Susan here, who understands silver a greatdeal better than I do; she takes a power of it for bread, you know.”
“I’ll leave it to her,” said the old harper; “if she says the shilling isgood, keep it, Jack.” The shilling was handed to Susan, who, though shehad with becoming modesty forborne all interference, did not hesitate,when she was called upon, to speak the truth: “I think that this shillingis a bad one,” said she; and the gentle but firm tone in which shepronounced the words, for a moment awed and silenced the angry and brutalboy. “There’s another, then,” cried he; “I have sixpences and shillingstoo in plenty, thank my stars.”
Susan now walked away with her two little brothers, and all the otherchildren separated to go to their several homes. The old harper calledto Susan, and begged, that, if she was going towards the village, shewould be so kind as to show him the way. His lad took up his harp, andlittle William took the old man by the hand. “I’ll lead him, I can leadhim,” said he; and John ran on before them, to gather king-cups in themeadow.
There was a small rivulet, which they had to cross, and as a plank whichserved for a bridge over it was rather narrow, Susan was afraid to trustthe old blind man to his little conductor; she therefore went on thetottering plank first herself, and then led the old harper carefullyover. They were now come to a gate, which opened upon the high road tothe village. “There is the high road straight before you,” said Susan tothe lad, who was carrying his master’s harp; “you can’t miss it. Now Imust bid you a good evening; for I’m in a great hurry to get home, andmust go the short way across the fields here, which would not be sopleasant for you, because of the stiles. Good-bye.” The old harperthanked her, and went along the high road, whilst she and her brotherstripped on as fast as they could by the short way across the fields.
“Miss Somers, I am afraid, will be waiting for us,” said Susan. “Youknow she said she would call at six; and by the length of our shadows I’msure it is late.”
When they came to their own cottage-door, they heard many voices, andthey saw, when they entered, several ladies standing in the kitchen.“Come in, Susan; we thought you had quite forsaken us,” said Miss Somersto Susan, who advanced timidly. “I fancy you forgot that we promised topay you a visit this evening, but you need not blush so much about thematter; there is no great harm done; we have only been here about fiveminutes; and we have been well employed in admiring your neat garden, andyour orderly shelves. Is it you, Susan, who keeps these things in suchnice order?” continued Miss Somers, looking round the kitchen.
Before Susan could reply, little William pushed forward, and answered,“Yes, ma’am, it is _my_ sister Susan that keeps everything neat; and shealways comes to school for us, too, which was what caused her to be solate.”
“Because as how,” continued John, “she was loth to refuse us the hearinga blind man play on the harp. It was we kept her, and we hopes, ma’am,as you _are_—as you _seem_ so good, you won’t take it amiss.”
Miss Somers and her sister smiled at the affectionate simplicity withwhich Susan’s little brothers undertook her defence, and they were, fromthis slight circumstance, disposed to think yet more favourably of afamily which seemed so well united. They took Susan along with themthrough the village. Many neighbours came to their doors, and far fromenvying, they all secretly wished Susan well as she passed.
“I fancy we shall find what we want here,” said Miss Somers, stoppingbefore a shop, where unfolded sheets of pins and glass buttons glistenedin the window, and where rolls of many coloured ribbons appeared rangedin tempting order. She went in, and was rejoiced to see the shelves atthe back of the counter well-furnished with glossy tiers of stuffs, andgay, neat printed linens and calicoes.
“Now, Susan, choose yourself a gown,” said Miss Somers; “you set anexample of industry and good conduct, of which we wish to take publicnotice, for the benefit of others.”
The shopkeeper, who was father to Susan’s friend Rose, looked muchsatisfied by this speech, and as if a compliment had been paid tohimself, bowed low to Miss Somers, and then with alertness, which aLondon linen-draper might have admired, produced piece after piece of hisbest goods to his young customer—unrolled, unfolded, held the brightstuffs and calendered calicoes in various lights. Now stretched his armto the highest shelves, and brought down in a trice what seemed to bebeyond the reach of any but a giant’s arm; now dived into some hiddenrecess beneath the counter, and brought to light fresh beauties and freshtemptations.
Susan looked on with more indifference than most of the spectators. Shewas thinking much of her lamb, and more of her father.
Miss Somers had put a bright guinea into her hand, and had bid her payfor her own gown; but Susan, as she looked at the guinea, thought it wasa great deal of money to lay out upon herself, and she wished, but didknow like to ask, that she might keep it for a better purpose.
Some people are wholly inattentive to the lesser feelings, and incapableof reading the countenances of those on whom they bestow their bounty.Miss Somers and her sister were not of this roughly charitable class.
“She does not like any of these things,” whispered Miss Somers to hersister. Her sister observed, that Susan looked as if her thoughts werefar distant from gowns.
“If you don’t fancy any of these,” said the civil shopkeeper to Susan,“we shall have a new assortment of calicoes for the spring season, soonfrom town.”
“Oh,” interrupted Susan, with a smile and a blush; “these are all pretty,and too good for me, but—”
“_But_ what, Susan?” said Miss Somers. “Tell us what is passing in yourlittle mind.” Susan hesitated. “Well then, we will not press you, youare scarcely acquainted with us yet; when you are, you will not beafraid, I hope, to speak your mind. Put this shining yellow counter,”continued she, pointing to the guinea, “in your pocket, and make what useof it you please. From what we know, and from what we have heard of you,we are persuaded that you will make a good use of it.”
“I think, madam,” said the master of the shop, with a shrewd, goodnatured look, “I could give a pretty good guess myself what will becomeof that guinea; but I say nothing.”
“No, that is right,” said Miss Somers; “we leave Susan entirely atliberty; and now we will not detain her any longer. Good night, Susan,we shall soon come again to your neat cottage.” Susan curtsied, with anexpressive look of gratitude, and with a modest frankness in hercountenance, which seemed to say, “I would tell you, and welcome, what Iwant to do with the guinea; but I am not used to speak before so manypeople. When you come to our cottage again you shall know all.”
When Susan had departed, Miss Somers turned to the obliging shopkeeper,who was folding up all the things he had opened. “You have had a greatdeal of trouble with us, sir,” said she; “and since Susan will not choosea gown for herself, I must.” She selected the prettiest; and whilst theman was rolling it in paper, she asked him several questions about Susanand her family, which he was delighted to answer, because he had now allopportunity of saying as much as he wished in her praise.
“No later back, ma’am, than last May morning,” said he, “as my daughterRose was telling us, Susan did a turn, in her quiet
way, by her mother,that would not displease you if you were to hear it. She was to havebeen Queen of the May, which in our little village, amongst the youngertribe, is a thing that is thought of a good deal; but Susan’s mother wasill, and Susan, after sitting up with her all night, would not leave herin the morning, even when they brought the crown to her. She put thecrown upon my daughter Rose’s head with her own hands; and, to be sure,Rose loves her as well as if she was her own sister. But I don’t speakfrom partiality; for I am no relation whatever to the Prices—only awell-wisher, as everyone, I believe, who knows them is. I’ll send theparcel up to the Abbey, shall I, ma’am?”
“If you please,” said Miss Somers, “and, as soon as you receive your newthings from town, let us know. You will, I hope, find us good customersand well-wishers,” added she, with a smile; “for those who wish well totheir neighbours surely deserve to have well-wishers themselves.”
A few words may encourage the benevolent passions, and may dispose peopleto live in peace and happiness; a few words may set them at variance, andmay lead to misery and lawsuits. Attorney Case and Miss Somers were bothequally convinced of this, and their practice was uniformly consistentwith their principles.
But now to return to Susan. She put the bright guinea carefully into theglove with the twelve shillings, which she had received from hercompanions on May day. Besides this treasure, she calculated that theamount of the bills for bread could not be less than eight or nine andthirty shillings; and as her father was now sure of a week’s reprieve,she had great hopes that, by some means or other, it would be possible tomake up the whole sum necessary to pay for a substitute. “If that couldbut be done,” said she to herself, “how happy would my mother be. Shewould be quite stout again, for she certainly is a great deal better,since I told her that father would stay a week longer. Ah! but she wouldnot have blessed Attorney Case, though, if she had known about my poorDaisy.”
Susan took the path that led to the meadow by the waterside, resolved togo by herself, and take leave of her innocent favourite. But she did notpass by unperceived. Her little brothers were watching for her return,and, as soon as they saw her, they ran after her, and overtook her as shereached the meadow.
“What did that good lady want with you?” cried William; but, looking upin his sister’s face, he saw tears in her eyes, and he was silent, andwalked on quietly. Susan saw her lamb by the water-side. “Who are thosetwo men?” said William. “What are they going to do with _Daisy_?” Thetwo men were Attorney Case and the butcher. The butcher was feelingwhether the lamb was fat.
Susan sat down upon the bank in silent sorrow; her little brothers ran upto the butcher, and demanded whether he was going to _do any harm_ to thelamb. The butcher did not answer, but the attorney replied, “It is notyour sister’s lamb any longer; it’s mine—mine to all intents andpurposes.”
“Yours!” cried the children, with terror; “and will you kill it?”
“That’s the butcher’s business.”
The little boys now burst into piercing lamentations. They pushed awaythe butcher’s hand; they threw their arms round the neck of the lamb;they kissed its forehead—it bleated. “It will not bleat to-morrow!” saidWilliam, and he wept bitterly. The butcher looked aside, and hastilyrubbed his eyes with the corner of his blue apron.
The attorney stood unmoved; he pulled up the head of the lamb, which hadjust stooped to crop a mouthful of clover. “I have no time to waste,”said he; “butcher, you’ll account with me. If it’s fat—the sooner thebetter. I’ve no more to say.” And he walked off, deaf to the prayers ofthe poor children.
As soon as the attorney was out of sight, Susan rose from the bank whereshe was seated, came up to her lamb, and stooped to gather some of thefresh dewy trefoil, to let it eat out of her hand for the last time.Poor Daisy licked her well known hand.
“Now, let us go,” said Susan.
“I’ll wait as long as you please,” said the butcher. Susan thanked him,but walked away quickly, without looking again at her lamb. Her littlebrothers begged the man to stay a few minutes, for they had gathered ahandful of blue speedwell and yellow crowsfoot, and they were decking thepoor animal. As it followed the boys through the village, the childrencollected as they passed, and the butcher’s own son was amongst thenumber. Susan’s steadiness about the bad shilling was full in this boy’smemory; it had saved him a beating. He went directly to his father tobeg the life of Susan’s lamb.
“I was thinking about it, boy, myself,” said the butcher; “it’s a sin tokill a _pet lamb_, I’m thinking—any way, it’s what I’m not used to, anddon’t fancy doing, and I’ll go and say as much to Attorney Case; but he’sa hard man; there’s but one way to deal with him, and that’s the way Imust take, though so be I shall be the loser thereby; but we’ll saynothing to the boys, for fear it might be the thing would not take; andthen it would be worse again to poor Susan, who is a good girl, andalways was, as well as she may, being of a good breed, and well rearedfrom the first.”
“Come, lads, don’t keep a crowd and a scandal about my door,” continuedhe, aloud, to the children; “turn the lamb in here, John, in the paddock,for to-night, and go your ways home.”
The crowd dispersed, but murmured, and the butcher went to the attorney.“Seeing that all you want is a good, fat, tender lamb, for a present forSir Arthur, as you told me,” said the butcher, “I could let you havewhat’s as good or better for your purpose.”
“Better—if it’s better, I’m ready to hear reason.”
The butcher had choice, tender lamb, he said, fit to eat the next day;and as Mr. Case was impatient to make his offering to Sir Arthur, heaccepted the butcher’s proposal, though with such seeming reluctance,that he actually squeezed out of him, before he would complete thebargain, a bribe of a fine sweetbread.
In the meantime Susan’s brothers ran home to tell her that her lamb wasput into the paddock for the night; this was all they knew, and even thiswas some comfort to her. Rose, her good friend, was with her, and shehad before her the pleasure of telling her father of his week’s reprieve.Her mother was better, and even said she was determined to sit up tosupper in her wicker armchair.
Susan was getting this ready for supper, when little William, who wasstanding at the house door, watching in the dusk for his father’s return,suddenly exclaimed, “Susan! if here is not our old man!”
“Yes,” said the old harper, “I have found my way to you. The neighbourswere kind enough to show me whereabouts you lived; for, though I didn’tknow your name, they guessed who I meant by what I said of you all.”Susan came to the door, and the old man was delighted to hear her speakagain. “If it would not be too bold,” said he, “I’m a stranger in thispart of the country, and come from afar off. My boy has got a bed forhimself here in the village; but I have no place. Could you be socharitable as to give an old blind man a night’s lodging?” Susan saidshe would step in and ask her mother; and she soon returned with ananswer, that he was heartily welcome, if he could sleep upon thechildren’s bed, which was but small.
The old man thankfully entered the hospitable cottage. He struck hishead against the low roof, as he stepped over the doorsill. “Many roofsthat are twice as high are not half so good,” said he. Of this he hadjust had experience at the house of the Attorney Case, while he hadasked, but had been roughly refused all assistance by Miss Barbara, whowas, according to her usual custom, standing staring at the hall door.
The old man’s harp was set down in Farmer Price’s kitchen, and hepromised to play a tune for the boys before they went to bed; theirmother giving them leave to sit up to supper with their father. He camehome with a sorrowful countenance; but how soon did it brighten, whenSusan, with a smile, said to him, “Father, we’ve good news for you! goodnews for us all!—You have a whole week longer to stay with us; andperhaps,” continued she, putting her little purse into hishands,—“perhaps with what’s here, and the bread bills, and what maysomehow be got togeth
er before a week’s at an end, we may make up thenine guineas for the substitute, as they call him. Who knows, dearestmother, but we may keep him with us for ever!” As she spoke, she threwher arms round her father, who pressed her to his bosom without speaking,for his heart was full. He was some little time before he couldperfectly believe that what he heard was true; but the revived smiles ofhis wife, the noisy joy of his little boys, and the satisfaction thatshone in Susan’s countenance, convinced him that he was not in a dream.
As they sat down to supper, the old harper was made welcome to his shareof the cheerful though frugal meal.
Susan’s father, as soon as supper was finished, even before he would letthe harper play a tune for his boys, opened the little purse, which Susanhad given him. He was surprised at the sight of the twelve shillings,and still more, when he came to the bottom of the purse, to see thebright golden guinea.
“How did you come by all this money, Susan?” said he.
“Honestly and handsomely, that I’m sure of beforehand,” said her proudmother; “but how I can’t make out, except by the baking. Hey, Susan isthis your first baking?”
“Oh, no, no,” said her father, “I have her first baking snug here,besides, in my pocket. I kept it for a surprise, to do your mother’sheart good, Susan. Here’s twenty-nine shillings, and the Abbey bill,which is not paid yet, comes to ten more. What think you of this, wife?Have we not a right to be proud of our Susan? Why,” continued he,turning to the harper, “I ask your pardon for speaking out so free beforestrangers in praise of my own, which I know is not mannerly; but thetruth is the fittest thing to be spoken, as I think, at all times;therefore, here’s your good health, Susan; why, by-and-by she’ll be worthher weight in gold—in silver at least. But tell us, child, how came youby all this riches? and how comes it that I don’t go to-morrow? All thishappy news makes me so gay in myself, I’m afraid I shall hardlyunderstand it rightly. But speak on, child—first bringing us a bottle ofthe good mead you made last year from your own honey.”
Susan did not much like to tell the history of her guinea-hen—of the gownand of her poor lamb. Part of this would seem as if she was vaunting ofher own generosity, and part of it she did not like to recollect. Buther mother pressed to know the whole, and she related it as simply as shecould. When she came to the story of her lamb, her voice faltered, andeverybody present was touched. The old harper sighed once, and clearedhis throat several times. He then asked for his harp, and, after tuningit for a considerable time, he recollected—for he had often fits ofabsence—that he sent for it to play the tune he had promised to the boys.
This harper came from a great distance, from the mountains of Wales, tocontend with several other competitors for a prize, which had beenadvertised by a musical society about a year before this time. There wasto be a splendid ball given upon the occasion at Shrewsbury, which wasabout five miles from our village. The prize was ten guineas for thebest performer on the harp, and the prize was now to be decided in a fewdays.
All this intelligence Barbara had long since gained from her maid, whooften paid visits to the town of Shrewsbury, and she had long had herimagination inflamed with the idea of this splendid music-meeting andball. Often had she sighed to be there, and often had she revolved inher mind schemes for introducing herself to some _genteel_ neighbours,who might take her to the ball _in their carriage_. How rejoiced, howtriumphant was she, when this very evening, just about the time when thebutcher was bargaining with her father about Susan’s lamb, a servant fromthe Abbey rapped at the door, and left a card for Mr. and Miss BarbaraCase.
“There,” cried Bab, “_I_ and _papa_ are to dine and drink tea at theAbbey to-morrow. Who knows? I daresay, when they see that I’m not avulgar person, and all that; and if I go cunningly to work with MissSomers, as I shall, to be sure, I daresay, she’ll take me to the ballwith her.”
“To be sure,” said the maid; “it’s the least one may expect from a ladywho _demeans_ herself to visit Susan Price, and goes about a-shopping forher. The least she can do for you is to take you in her carriage,_which_ costs nothing, but is just a common civility, to a ball.”
“Then pray, Betty,” continued Miss Barbara, “don’t forget to-morrow, thefirst thing you do, to send off to Shrewsbury for my new bonnet. I musthave it _to dine in_, at the Abbey, or the ladies will think nothing ofme; and Betty, remember the mantua-maker too. I must see and coax papato buy me a new gown against the ball. I can see, you know, something ofthe fashions to-morrow at the Abbey. I shall _look the ladies wellover_, I promise you. And, Betty, I have thought of the most charmingpresent for Miss Somers, as papa says it’s good never to go empty-handedto a great house, I’ll make Miss Somers, who is fond, as her maid toldyou, of such things—I’ll make Miss Somers a present of that guinea-hen ofSusan’s; it’s of no use to me, so do you carry it up early in the morningto the Abbey, with my compliments. That’s the thing.”
In full confidence that her present and her bonnet would operateeffectually in her favour, Miss Barbara paid her first visit at theAbbey. She expected to see wonders. She was dressed in all the finerywhich she had heard from her maid, who had heard from the ’prentice of aShrewsbury milliner, was _the thing_ in London; and she was muchsurprised and disappointed, when she was shown into the room where theMiss Somerses and the ladies of the Abbey were sitting, to see that theydid not, in any one part of their dress, agree with the picture herimagination had formed of fashionable ladies. She was embarrassed whenshe saw books and work and drawings upon the table, and she began tothink that some affront was meant to her, because _the company_ did notsit with their hands before them.
When Miss Somers endeavoured to find out conversation that would interesther, and spoke of walks and flowers and gardening, of which she washerself fond, Miss Barbara still thought herself undervalued, and sooncontrived to expose her ignorance most completely, by talking of thingswhich she did not understand.
Those who never attempt to appear what they are not—those who do not intheir manners pretend to anything unsuited to their habits and situationin life, never are in danger of being laughed at by sensible, well bredpeople of any rank; but affectation is the constant and just object ofridicule.
Miss Barbara Case, with her mistaken airs of gentility, aiming to bethought a woman, and a fine lady, whilst she was, in reality, a child anda vulgar attorney’s daughter, rendered herself so thoroughly ridiculous,that the good natured, yet discerning spectators were painfully dividedbetween their sense of comic absurdity and a feeling of shame for one whocould feel nothing for herself.
One by one the ladies dropped off. Miss Somers went out of the room fora few minutes to alter her dress, as it was the custom of the family,before dinner. She left a portfolio of pretty drawings and good prints,for Miss Barbara’s amusement; but Miss Barbara’s thoughts were so intentupon the harpers’ ball, that she could not be entertained with such_trifles_. How unhappy are those who spend their time in expectation!They can never enjoy the present moment. Whilst Barbara was contrivingmeans of interesting Miss Somers in her favour, she recollected, withsurprise, that not one word had yet been said of her present of theguinea-hen. Mrs. Betty, in the hurry of her dressing her young lady inthe morning, had forgotten it; but it came just whilst Miss Somers wasdressing; and the housekeeper came into her mistress’ room to announceits arrival.
“Ma’am,” said she, “here’s a beautiful guinea-hen just come, with MissBarbara Case’s compliments to you.”
Miss Somers knew, by the tone which the housekeeper delivered thismessage, that there was something in the business which did not perfectlyplease her. She made no answer, in expectation that the housekeeper, whowas a woman of a very open temper, would explain her cause ofdissatisfaction. In this she was not mistaken. The housekeeper cameclose up to the dressing table, and continued, “I never like to speaktill I’m sure, ma’am, and I’m not quite sure, to say certain, in thiscase, ma’am, but still I think it right to tell you,
which can’t wronganybody, what came across my mind about this same guinea-hen, ma’am; andyou can inquire into it, and do as you please afterwards, ma’am. Sometime ago we had fine guinea-fowls of our own, and I made bold, notthinking, to be sure, that all our own would die away from us, as theyhave done, to give a fine couple last Christmas to Susan Price, and veryfond and pleased she was at the time, and I’m sure would never haveparted with the hen with her good-will; but if my eyes don’t strangelymistake, this hen, that comes from Miss Barbara, is the selfsameidentical guinea-hen that I gave to Susan. And how Miss Bab came by itis the thing that puzzles me. If my boy Philip was at home, maybe, ashe’s often at Mrs. Price’s (which I don’t disapprove), he might know thehistory of the guinea-hen. I expect him home this night, and if you haveno objection, I will sift the affair.”
“The shortest way, I think,” said Henrietta, “would be to ask Miss Caseherself about it, which I will do this evening.”
“If you please, ma’am,” said the housekeeper, coldly; for she knew thatMiss Barbara was not famous in the village for speaking truth.
Dinner was now served. Attorney Case expected to smell mint sauce, and,as the covers were taken from off the dishes, looked around for lamb; butno lamb appeared. He had a dexterous knack of twisting the conversationto his point. Sir Arthur was speaking, when they sat down to dinner, ofa new carving knife, which he lately had had made for his sister. Theattorney immediately went from carving-knives to poultry; thence tobutcher’s meat. Some joints, he observed, were much more difficult tocarve than others. He never saw a man carve better than the gentlemanopposite him, who was the curate of the parish. “But, sir,” said thevulgar attorney, “I must make bold to differ with you in one point, andI’ll appeal to Sir Arthur. Sir Arthur, pray may I ask, when you carve aforequarter of lamb, do you, when you raise the shoulder, throw in salt,or not?” This well prepared question was not lost upon Sir Arthur. Theattorney was thanked for his intended present; but mortified andsurprised to hear Sir Arthur say that it was a constant rule of his neverto accept of any presents from his neighbours. “If we were to accept alamb from a rich neighbour on my estate,” said he, “I am afraid we shouldmortify many of our poor tenants, who can have little to offer, though,perhaps, they may bear us thorough good-will notwithstanding.”
After the ladies left the dining-room, as they were walking up and downthe large hall, Miss Barbara had a fair opportunity of imitating her keenfather’s method of conversing. One of the ladies observed, that thishall would be a charming place for music. Bab brought in harps andharpers, and the harpers’ ball, in a breath. “I know so much aboutit,—about the ball I mean,” said she, “because a lady in Shrewsbury, afriend of papa’s, offered to take me with her; but papa did not like togive her the trouble of sending so far for me, though she has a coach ofher own.” Barbara fixed her eyes upon Miss Somers as she spoke; but shecould not read her countenance as distinctly as she wished, because MissSomers was at this moment letting down the veil of her hat.
“Shall we walk out before tea?” said Miss Somers to her companions; “Ihave a pretty guinea-hen to show you.” Barbara, secretly drawingpropitious omens from the guinea-hen, followed with a confidential step.The pheasantry was well filled with pheasants, peacocks, etc., andSusan’s pretty little guinea-hen appeared well, even in this highcompany. It was much admired. Barbara was in glory; but her glory wasof short duration.
Just as Miss Somers was going to inquire into the guinea-hen’s history,Philip came up, to ask permission to have a bit of sycamore, to turn anutmeg box for his mother. He was an ingenious lad, and a good turnerfor his age. Sir Arthur had put by a bit of sycamore, on purpose forhim; and Miss Somers told him where it was to be found. He thanked her:but in the midst of his bow of thanks his eye was struck by the sight ofthe guinea-hen, and he involuntarily exclaimed, “Susan’s guinea-hen, Ideclare!” “No, it’s not Susan’s guinea-hen,” said Miss Barbara,colouring furiously; “it is mine, and I have made a present of it to MissSomers.”
At the sound of Bab’s voice, Philip turned—saw her—and indignation,unrestrained by the presence of all the amazed spectators, flashed in hiscountenance.
“What is the matter, Philip?” said Miss Somers, in a pacifying tone; butPhilip was not inclined to be pacified. “Why, ma’am,” said he, “may Ispeak out?” and, without waiting for permission, he spoke out, and gave afull, true, and warm account of Rose’s embassy, and of Miss Barbara’scruel and avaricious proceedings.
Barbara denied, prevaricated, stammered, and at last was overcome withconfusion; for which even the most indulgent spectators could scarcelypity her.
Miss Somers, however, mindful of what was due to her guest, was anxiousto dispatch Philip for his piece of sycamore. Bab recovered herself assoon as he was out of sight; but she further exposed herself byexclaiming, “I’m sure I wish this pitiful guinea-hen had never come intomy possession. I wish Susan had kept it at home, as she should havedone!”
“Perhaps she will be more careful now that she has received so strong alesson,” said Miss Somers. “Shall we try her?” continued she. “Philipwill, I daresay, take the guinea-hen back to Susan, if we desire it.”
“If you please, ma’am,” said Barbara, sullenly; “I have nothing more todo with it.”
So the guinea-hen was delivered to Philip, who set off joyfully with hisprize, and was soon in sight of Farmer Price’s cottage. He stopped whenhe came to the door. He recollected Rose and her generous friendship forSusan. He was determined that she should have the pleasure of restoringthe guinea-hen. He ran into the village. All the children who had givenup their little purse on May day were assembled on the play-green. Theywere delighted to see the guinea-hen once more. Philip took his pipe andtabor, and they marched in innocent triumph towards the whitewashedcottage.
“Let me come with you—let me come with you,” said the butcher’s boy toPhilip. “Stop one minute! my father has something to say to you.” Hedarted into his father’s house. The little procession stopped, and in afew minutes the bleating of a lamb was heard. Through a back passage,which led into the paddock behind the house, they saw the butcher leadinga lamb.
“It is Daisy!” exclaimed Rose—“It’s Daisy!” repeated all her companions.“Susan’s lamb! Susan’s lamb!” and there was a universal shout of joy.
“Well, for my part,” said the good butcher, as soon as he could beheard,—“for my part, I would not be so cruel as Attorney Case for thewhole world. These poor brute beasts don’t know aforehand what’s goingto happen to them; and as for dying, it’s what we must all do some timeor another; but to keep wringing the hearts of the living, that have asmuch sense as one’s self, is what I call cruel; and is not this whatAttorney Case has been doing by poor Susan and her whole family, eversince he took a spite against them? But, at anyrate, here’s Susan’s lambsafe and sound. I’d have taken it back sooner, but I was off before dayto the fair, and am but just come back. Daisy, however, has been as welloff in my paddock as he would have been in the field by the waterside.”
The obliging shopkeeper, who showed the pretty calicoes to Susan, was nowat his door, and when he saw the lamb, and heard that it was Susan’s, andlearned its history, he said that he would add his mite; and he gave thechildren some ends of narrow riband, with which Rose decorated herfriend’s lamb.
The pipe and tabor now once more began to play, and the procession movedon in joyful order, after giving the humane butcher three cheers; threecheers which were better deserved than “loud huzzas” usually are.
Susan was working in her arbour, with her little deal table before her.When she heard the sound of the music, she put down her work andlistened. She saw the crowd of children coming nearer and nearer. Theyhad closed round Daisy, so that she did not see it; but as they came upto the garden gate she saw that Rose beckoned to her. Philip played asloud as he could, that she might not hear, till the proper moment, thebleating of the lamb. Susan opened the gard
en-wicket, and at this signalthe crowd divided, and the first thing that Susan saw, in the midst ofher taller friends, was little smiling Mary, with the guinea-hen in herarms.
“Come on! Come on!” cried Mary, as Susan started with joyful surprise;“you have more to see.”
At this instant the music paused, Susan heard the bleating of a lamb, andscarcely daring to believe her senses, she pressed eagerly forward, andbeheld poor Daisy!—she burst into tears. “I did not shed one tear when Iparted with you, my dear little Daisy!” said she. “It was for my fatherand mother. I would not have parted with you for anything else in thewhole world. Thank you, thank you all,” added she, to her companions,who sympathized in her joy, even more than they had sympathized in hersorrow. “Now, if my father was not to go away from us next week, and ifmy mother was quite stout, I should be the happiest person in the world!”
As Susan pronounced these words, a voice behind the little listeningcrowd cried, in a brutal tone, “Let us pass, if you please; you have noright to stop up the public road!” This was the voice of Attorney Case,who was returning with his daughter Barbara from his visit to the Abbey.He saw the lamb, and tried to whistle as he went on. Barbara also sawthe guinea-hen, and turned her head another way, that she might avoid thecontemptuous, reproachful looks of those whom she only affected todespise. Even her new bonnet, in which she had expected to be so muchadmired, was now only serviceable to hide her face and conceal hermortification.
“I am glad she saw the guinea-hen,” cried Rose, who now held it in herhands.
“Yes,” said Philip, “she’ll not forget May day in a hurry.”
“Nor I neither, I hope,” said Susan, looking round upon her companionswith a most affectionate smile: “I hope, whilst I live, I shall neverforget your goodness to me last May day. Now I’ve my pretty guinea-hensafe once more, I should think of returning your money.”
“No! no! no!” was the general cry. “We don’t want the money—keep it,keep it—you want it for your father.”
“Well,” said Susan, “I am not too proud to be obliged. I _will_ keepyour money for my father. Perhaps some time or other I may be able toearn—”
“Oh,” interrupted Philip, “don’t let us talk of earning; don’t let ustalk to her of money now; she has not had time hardly to look at poorDaisy and her guinea-hen. Come, we must go about our business, and lether have them all to herself.”
The crowd moved away in consequence of Philip’s considerate advice: butit was observed that he was the very last to stir from the garden-wickethimself. He stayed, first, to inform Susan that it was Rose who tied theribands on Daisy’s head. Then he stayed a little longer to let her intothe history of the guinea-hen, and to tell her who it was that broughtthe hen home from the Abbey.
Rose held the sieve, and Susan was feeding her long lost favourite,whilst Philip leaned over the wicket, prolonging his narration. “Now, mypretty guinea-hen,” said Susan—“my naughty guinea-hen, that flew awayfrom me, you shall never serve me so again. I must cut your nice wings;but I won’t hurt you.”
“Take care,” cried Philip; “you’d better, indeed you’d better let me holdher whilst you cut her wings.”
When this operation was successfully performed, which it certainly couldnever have been if Philip had not held the hen for Susan, he recollectedthat his mother had sent him with a message to Mrs. Price. This messageled to another quarter of an hour’s delay; for he had the whole historyof the guinea-hen to tell over again to Mrs. Price, and the farmerhimself luckily came in whilst it was going on, so it was but civil tobegin it afresh; and then the farmer was so rejoiced to see his Susan sohappy again with her two little favourites that he declared he must seeDaisy fed himself; and Philip found that he was wanted to hold the jugfull of milk, out of which Farmer Price filled the pan for Daisy? HappyDaisy! who lapped at his ease, whilst Susan caressed him, and thanked herfond father and her pleased mother.
“But, Philip,” said Mrs. Price, “I’ll hold the jug—you’ll be late withyour message to your mother; we’ll not detain you any longer.”
Philip departed, and as he went out of the garden-wicket, he looked up,and saw Bab and her maid Betty staring out of the window, as usual. Onthis, he immediately turned back to try whether he had shut the gatefast, lest the guinea-hen might stray out, and fall again into the handsof the enemy.
Miss Barbara, in the course of this day, felt considerable mortification,but no contrition. She was vexed that her meanness was discovered, butshe felt no desire to cure herself of any of her faults. The ball wasstill uppermost in her vain, selfish soul. “Well,” said she to her_confidante_, Betty, “you hear how things have turned out; but if MissSomers won’t think of asking me to go out with her, I’ve a notion I knowwho will. As papa says, it’s a good thing to have two strings to one’sbow.”
Now, some officers, who were quartered at Shrewsbury, had becomeacquainted with Mr. Case. They had gotten into some quarrel with atradesman of the town, and Attorney Case had promised to bring themthrough the affair, as the man threatened to take the law of them. Uponthe faith of this promise, and with the vain hope that, by civility, theymight dispose him to bring in a _reasonable_ bill of costs, theseofficers sometimes invited Mr. Case to the mess; and one of them, who hadlately been married, prevailed upon his bride _sometimes_ to take alittle notice of Miss Barbara. It was with this lady that Miss Barbaranow hoped to go to the harpers’ ball.
“The officers and Mrs. Strathspey, or, more properly, Mrs. Strathspey andthe officers, are to breakfast here, to-morrow, do you know,” said Bab toBetty. “One of them dined at the Abbey, to-day, and told papa thatthey’d all come. They are going out on a party, somewhere into thecountry, and breakfast here on their way. Pray, Betty, don’t forget thatMrs. Strathspey can’t breakfast without honey. I heard her say somyself.”
“Then, indeed,” said Betty, “I’m afraid Mrs. Strathspey will be likely togo without her breakfast here; for not a spoonful of honey have we, lether long for it ever so much.”
“But, surely,” said Bab, “we can contrive to get some honey in theneighbourhood.”
“There’s none to be bought, as I know of,” said Betty.
“But is there none to be begged or borrowed?” said Bab, laughing. “Doyou forget Susan’s beehive? Step over to her in the morning with _mycompliments_, and see what you can do. Tell her it’s for Mrs.Strathspey.”
In the morning Betty went with Miss Barbara’s compliments to Susan, tobeg some honey for Mrs. Strathspey, who could not breakfast without it.Susan did not like to part with her honey, because her mother loved it,and she therefore gave Betty but a small quantity. When Barbara saw howlittle Susan sent, she called her _a miser_, and she said she _must_ havesome more for Mrs. Strathspey. “I’ll go myself and speak to her. Comewith me, Betty,” said the young lady, who found it at present convenientto forget her having declared, the day that she sucked up the broth, thatshe never would honour Susan with another visit. “Susan,” said she,accosting the poor girl, whom she had done everything in her power toinjure, “I must beg a little more honey from you for Mrs. Strathspey’sbreakfast. You know, on a particular occasion such as this, neighboursmust help one another.”
“To be sure they should,” added Betty.
Susan, though she was generous, was not weak; she was willing to give tothose she loved, but not disposed to let anything be taken from her, orcoaxed out of her, by those she had reason to despise. She civillyanswered, that she was sorry she had no more honey to spare.
Barbara grew angry, and lost all command of herself, when she saw thatSusan, without regarding her reproaches, went on looking through theglass pane in the beehive. “I’ll tell you what, Susan Price,” said she,in a high tone, “the honey I _will_ have, so you may as well give it tome by fair means. Yes or no! Speak! Will you give it me or not? Willyou give me that piece of the honey-comb that lies there?”
“That bit of honey-comb is for my mother’s break
fast,” said Susan; “Icannot give it you.”
“Can’t you?” said Bab, “then see if I don’t take it!” She stretchedacross Susan for the honey-comb, which was lying by some rosemary leavesthat Susan had freshly gathered for her mother’s tea. Bab grasped, butat her first effort she only reached the rosemary. She made a seconddart at the honey-comb, and, in her struggle to obtain it, she oversetthe beehive. The bees swarmed about her. Her maid Betty screamed andran away. Susan, who was sheltered by a laburnum tree, called toBarbara, upon whom the black clusters of bees were now settling, andbegged her to stand still, and not to beat them away. “If you standquietly you won’t be stung, perhaps.” But instead of standing quietly,Bab buffeted and stamped and roared, and the bees stung her terribly.Her arms and her face swelled in a frightful manner. She was helped homeby poor Susan and treacherous Mrs. Betty, who, now the mischief was done,thought only of exculpating herself to her master.
“Indeed, Miss Barbara,” said she, “this was quite wrong of you to go andget yourself into such a scrape. I shall be turned away for it, you’llsee.”
“I don’t care whether you are turned away or not,” said Barbara; “I neverfelt such pain in my life. Can’t you do something for me? I don’t mindthe pain either so much as being such a fright. Pray, how am I to be fitto be seen at breakfast by Mrs. Strathspey; and I suppose I can’t go tothe ball either to-morrow, after all!”
“No, that you can’t expect to do, indeed,” said Betty, the comforter.“You need not think of balls; for those lumps and swellings won’t go offyour face this week. That’s not what pains me; but I’m thinking of whatyour papa will say to me when he sees you, miss.”
Whilst this amiable mistress and maid were in their adversity revilingone another, Susan, when she saw that she could be of no further use, waspreparing to depart, but at the house-door, she was met by Mr. Case. Mr.Case had revolved things in his mind; for his second visit at the Abbeypleased him as little as his first, owing to a few words which Sir Arthurand Miss Somers dropped in speaking of Susan and Farmer Price. Mr. Casebegan to fear that he had mistaken his game in quarrelling with thisfamily. The refusal of his present dwelt upon the attorney’s mind; andhe was aware that, if the history of Susan’s lamb ever reached the Abbey,he was undone. He now thought that the most prudent course he couldpossibly follow would be to _hush up_ matters with the _Prices_ with allconvenient speed. Consequently, when he met Susan at his door, he forceda gracious smile. “How is your mother, Susan?” said he. “Is thereanything in our house can be of service to her?” On hearing his daughterhe cried out, “Barbara, Barbara—Bab! come downstairs, child, and speak toSusan Price.” But as no Barbara answered, her father stalked upstairsdirectly, opened the door, and stood amazed at the spectacle of herswelled visage.
Betty instantly began to tell the story of Barbara’s mishap her own way.Bab contradicted her as fast as she spoke. The attorney turned the maidaway on the spot; and partly with real anger, and partly with feignedaffectation of anger, he demanded from his daughter how she dared totreat Susan Price so ill, “when,” as he said, “she was so neighbourly andobliging as to give you some of her honey? Couldn’t you be content,without seizing upon the honey-comb by force? This is scandalousbehaviour, and what, I assure you, I can’t countenance.”
Susan now interceded for Barbara; and the attorney, softening his voice,said that “Susan was a great deal too good to her; as you are, indeed,”added he, “to everybody. I forgive her for your sake.” Susan curtsied,in great surprise; but her lamb could not be forgotten, and she left theattorney’s house as soon as she could, to make her mother’s rosemary teabreakfast.
Mr. Case saw that Susan was not so simple as to be taken in by a few fairwords. His next attempt was to conciliate Farmer Price. The farmer wasa blunt, honest man, and his countenance remained inflexiblycontemptuous, when the attorney addressed him in his softest tone.
So stood matters the day of the long expected harpers’ ball. MissBarbara Case, stung by Susan’s bees, could not, after all her manœuvres,go with Mrs. Strathspey to the ball. The ballroom was filled early inthe evening. There was a numerous assembly. The harpers, who contendedfor the prize, were placed under the music-gallery at the lower end ofthe room. Amongst them was our old blind friend, who, as he was not sowell clad as his competitors, seemed to be disdained by many of thespectators. Six ladies and six gentlemen were now appointed to be judgesof the performance. They were seated in a semicircle, opposite to theharpers. The Miss Somerses, who were fond of music, were amongst theladies in the semicircle; and the prize was lodged in the hands of SirArthur. There was now silence. The first harp sounded, and as eachmusician tried his skill, the audience seemed to think that each deservedthe prize. The old blind man was the last. He tuned his instrument; andsuch a simple, pathetic strain was heard as touched every heart. Allwere fixed in delighted attention; and when the music ceased, the silencefor some moments continued.
The silence was followed by a universal buzz of applause. The judgeswere unanimous in their opinions, and it was declared that the old blindharper, who played the last, deserved the prize.
The simple, pathetic air which won the suffrages of the whole assembly,was his own composition. He was pressed to give the words belonging tothe music; and at last he modestly offered to repeat them, as he couldnot see to write. Miss Somers’ ready pencil was instantly produced; andthe old harper dictated the words of his ballad, which he called—“Susan’sLamentation for her Lamb.”
Miss Somers looked at her brother from time to time, as she wrote; andSir Arthur, as soon as the old man had finished, took him aside, andasked him some questions, which brought the whole history of Susan’s lamband of Attorney Case’s cruelty to light.
The attorney himself was present when the harper began to dictate hisballad. His colour, as Sir Arthur steadily looked at him, variedcontinually; till at length, when he heard the words “Susan’s Lamentationfor her Lamb,” he suddenly shrunk back, skulked through the crowd, anddisappeared. We shall not follow him; we had rather follow our oldfriend, the victorious harper.
No sooner had he received the ten guineas, his well merited prize, thanhe retired to a small room belonging to the people of the house, askedfor pen, ink and paper, and dictated, in a low voice, to his boy, who wasa tolerably good scribe, a letter, which he ordered him to put directlyinto the Shrewsbury post-office. The boy ran with the letter to thepost-office. He was but just in time, for the postman’s horn wassounding.
The next morning, when Farmer Price, his wife, and Susan, were sittingtogether, reflecting that his week’s leave of absence was nearly at anend, and that the money was not yet made up for John Simpson, thesubstitute, a knock was heard at the door, and the person who usuallydelivered the letters in the village put a letter into Susan’s hand,saying, “A penny, if you please—here’s a letter for your father.”
“For me!” said Farmer Price; “here’s the penny then, but who can it befrom, I wonder? Who can think of writing to me, in this world?” He toreopen the letter; but the hard name at the bottom of the page puzzledhim—“your obliged friend, Llewellyn.”
“And what’s this?” said he, opening a paper that was inclosed in theletter. “It’s a song, seemingly; it must be somebody that has a mind tomake an April fool of me.”
“But it is not April, it is May, father,” said Susan.
“Well, let us read the letter, and we shall come to the truth all in goodtime.”
Farmer Price sat down in his own chair, for he could not read entirely tohis satisfaction in any other, and read as follows:—
“MY WORTHY FRIEND,—I am sure you will be glad to hear that I have had good success this night. I have won the ten guinea prize, and for that I am in a great measure indebted to your sweet daughter Susan; as you will see by a little ballad I inclose for her. Your hospitality to me has afforded to me an opportunity of learning some of your family history. You do not, I
hope, forget that I was present when you were counting the treasure in Susan’s little purse, and that I heard for what purpose it was all destined. You have not, I know, yet made up the full sum for your substitute, John Simpson; therefore do me the favour to use the five guinea bank note which you will find within the ballad. You shall not find me as hard a creditor as Attorney Case. Pay me the money at your own convenience. If it is never convenient to you to pay it, I shall never ask it. I shall go my rounds again through this country, I believe, about this time next year, and will call to see how you do, and to play the new tune for Susan and the dear little boys.
“I should just add, to set your heart at rest about the money, that it does not distress me at all to lend it to you. I am not quite so poor as I appear to be. But it is my humour to go about as I do. I see more of the world under my tattered garb than, perhaps, I should ever see in a better dress. There are many of my profession who are of the same mind as myself in this respect; and we are glad, when it lies in our way, to do any kindness to such a worthy family as yours.—So, fare ye well.
“Your obliged Friend, “LLEWELLYN.”
Susan now, by her father’s desire, opened the ballad. He picked up thefive guinea bank note, whilst she read, with surprise, “Susan’sLamentation for her Lamb.” Her mother leaned over her shoulder to readthe words; but they were interrupted, before they had finished the firststanza, by another knock at the door. It was not the postman withanother letter. It was Sir Arthur and his sisters.
They came with an intention, which they were much disappointed to findthat the old harper had rendered vain—they came to lend the farmer andhis good family the money to pay for his substitute.
“But, since we are here,” said Sir Arthur, “let me do my own business,which I had like to have forgotten. Mr. Price, will you come out withme, and let me show you a piece of your land, through which I want tomake a road. Look there,” said Sir Arthur, pointing to the spot, “I amlaying out a ride round my estate, and that bit of land of yours stopsme.”
“Why, sir,” said Price, “the land’s mine, to be sure, for that matter;but I hope you don’t look upon me to be that sort of person that would bestiff about a trifle or so.”
“The fact is,” said Sir Arthur, “I had heard you were a litigious,pig-headed fellow; but you do not seem to deserve this character.”
“Hope not, sir,” said the farmer; “but about the matter of the land, Idon’t want to take any advantage of your wishing for it. You are welcometo it; and I leave it to you to find me out another bit of landconvenient to me that will be worth neither more nor less; or else tomake up the value to me some way or other. I need say no more about it.”
“I hear something,” continued Sir Arthur, after a short silence—“I hearsomething, Mr. Price, of a _flaw_ in your lease. I would not speak toyou about it whilst we were bargaining about your land, lest I shouldover-awe you; but, tell me, what is this flaw?”
“In truth, and the truth is the fittest thing to be spoken at all times,”said the farmer, “I didn’t know myself what a flaw, as they call it,meant, till I heard of the word from Attorney Case; and, I take it, _aflaw_ is neither more nor less than a mistake, as one should say. Now,by reason a man does not make a mistake on purpose, it seems to me to bethe fair thing, that if a man finds out his mistake, he might set itright; but Attorney Case says this is not law; and I’ve no more to say.The man who drew up my lease made a mistake; and if I must suffer for it,I must,” said the farmer. “However, I can show you, Sir Arthur, just formy own satisfaction and yours, a few lines of a memorandum on a slip ofpaper, which was given me by your relation, the gentleman who lived herebefore, and let me my farm. You’ll see, by that bit of paper, what wasmeant; but the attorney says, the paper’s not worth a button in a courtof justice, and I don’t understand these things. All I understand is thecommon honesty of the matter. I’ve no more to say.”
“This attorney, whom you speak of so often,” said Sir Arthur, “you seemto have some quarrel with. Now, would you tell me frankly what is thematter between—?”
“The matter between us, then,” said Price, “is a little bit of ground,not worth much, that is there open to the lane at the end of Mr. Case’sgarden, sir, and he wanted to take it in. Now I told him my mind, thatit belonged to the parish, and that I never would willingly give myconsent to his cribbing it in that way. Sir, I was the more loath to seeit shut into his garden, which, moreover, is large enough of allconscience without it, because you must know, Sir Arthur, the children inour village are fond of making a little play-green of it; and they have acustom of meeting on May day at a hawthorn that stands in the middle ofit, and altogether I was very loath to see ’em turned out of it by thosewho have no right.”
“Let us go and see this nook,” said Sir Arthur. “It is not far off, isit?”
“Oh, no, sir, just hard by here.”
When they got to the ground, Mr. Case, who saw them walking together, wasin a hurry to join them, that he might put a stop to any explanations.Explanations were things of which he had a great dread; but, fortunately,he was upon this occasion a little too late.
“Is this the nook in dispute?” said Sir Arthur.
“Yes; this is the whole thing,” said Price.
“Why, Sir Arthur,” interposed the politic attorney, with an assumed airof generosity, “don’t let us talk any more about it. Let it belong towhom it will, I give it up to you.”
“So great a lawyer, Mr. Case, as you are,” replied Sir Arthur, “mustknow, that a man cannot give up that to which he has no legal title; andin this case it is impossible that, with the best intentions to oblige mein the world, you can give up this bit of land to me, because it is minealready, as I can convince you effectually by a map of the adjoiningland, which I have fortunately safe amongst my papers. This piece ofground belonged to the farm on the opposite side of the road, and it wascut off when the lane was made.”
“Very possibly. I daresay you are quite correct; you must know best,”said the attorney, trembling for the agency.
“Then,” said Sir Arthur, “Mr. Price, you will observe that I now promisethis little green to the children for a play-ground; and I hope they maygather hawthorn many a May day at this their favourite bush.” Mr. Pricebowed low, which he seldom did, even when he received a favour himself.“And now, Mr. Case,” said Sir Arthur, turning to the attorney, who didnot know which way to look, “you sent me a lease to look over.”
“Ye-ye-yes,” stammered Mr. Case. “I thought it my duty to do so; not outof any malice or ill-will to this good man.”
“You have done him no injury,” said Sir Arthur, coolly. “I am ready tomake him a new lease, whenever he pleases, of his farm, and I shall beguided by a memorandum of the original bargain, which he has in hispossession. I hope I never shall take an unfair advantage of anyone.”
“Heaven forbid, sir,” said the attorney, sanctifying his face, “that Ishould suggest the taking an _unfair_ advantage of any man, rich or poor;but to break a bad lease is not taking an unfair advantage.”
“You really think so?” said Sir Arthur.
“Certainly I do, and I hope I have not hazarded your good opinion byspeaking my mind concerning the flaw so plainly. I always understoodthat there could be nothing ungentlemanlike, in the way of business, intaking advantage of a flaw in a lease.”
“Now,” said Sir Arthur, “you have pronounced judgment _undesignedly_ inyour own case. You intended to send me this poor man’s lease; but yourson, by some mistake, brought me your own, and I have discovered a fatalerror in it.”
“A fatal error!” said the alarmed attorney.
“Yes, sir,” said Sir Arthur, pulling the lease out of his pocket. “Hereit is. You will observe that it is neither signed nor sealed by thegrantor.”
“But, y
ou won’t take advantage of me, surely, Sir Arthur?” said Mr. Case,forgetting his own principles.
“I shall not take advantage of you, as you would have taken of thishonest man. In both cases I shall be guided by memoranda which I have inmy possession. I shall not, Mr. Case, defraud you of one shilling ofyour property. I am ready, at a fair valuation, to pay the exact valueof your house and land; but upon this condition—that you quit the parishwithin one month!”
Attorney Case was thus compelled to submit to the hard necessity of thecase, for he knew that he could not legally resist. Indeed he was gladto be let off so easily; and he bowed and sneaked away, secretlycomforting himself with the hope, that when they came to the valuation ofthe house and land he should be the gainer, perhaps of a few guineas.His reputation he justly held very cheap.
“You are a scholar; you write a good hand; you can keep accounts, cannotyou?” said Sir Arthur to Mr. Price, as they walked home towards thecottage. “I think I saw a bill of your little daughter’s drawing out theother day, which was very neatly written. Did you teach her to write?”
“No, sir,” said Price, “I can’t say I did _that_; for she mostly taughtit herself, but I taught her a little arithmetic, as far as I knew, onour winter nights, when I had nothing better to do.”
“Your daughter shows that she has been well taught,” said Sir Arthur;“and her good conduct and good character speak strongly in favour of herparents.”
“You are very good, very good indeed, sir, to speak in this sort of way,”said the delighted father.
“But I mean to do more than _pay you with words_,” said Sir Arthur. “Youare attached to your own family, perhaps you may become attached to me,when you come to know me, and we shall have frequent opportunities ofjudging of one another. I want no agent to squeeze my tenants, or do mydirty work. I only want a steady, intelligent, honest man, like you, tocollect my rents, and I hope, Mr. Price, you will have no objection tothe employment.”
“I hope, sir,” said Price, with joy and gratitude glowing in his honestcountenance, “that you’ll never have cause to repent your goodness.”
“And what are my sisters about here?” said Sir Arthur, entering thecottage, and going behind his sisters, who were busily engaged inmeasuring an extremely pretty coloured calico.
“It is for Susan, my dear brother,” said they. “I know she did not keepthat guinea for herself,” said Miss Somers. “I have just prevailed uponher mother to tell me what became of it. Susan gave it to her father;but she must not refuse a gown of our choosing this time; and I am sureshe will not, because her mother, I see, likes it. And, Susan, I hearthat instead of becoming Queen of the May this year, you were sitting inyour sick mother’s room. Your mother has a little colour in her cheeksnow.”
“Oh, ma’am,” interrupted Mrs. Price, “I’m quite well. Joy, I think, hasmade me quite well.”
“Then,” said Miss Somers, “I hope you will be able to come out on yourdaughter’s birthday, which, I hear, is the 25th of this month. Makehaste and get quite well before that day; for my brother intends that allthe lads and lassies of the village shall have a dance on Susan’sbirthday.”
“Yes,” said Sir Arthur, “and I hope on that day, Susan, you will be veryhappy with your little friends upon their play-green. I shall tell themthat it is your good conduct which has obtained it for them; and if youhave anything to ask, any little favour for any of your companions, whichwe can grant, now ask, Susan. These ladies look as if they would notrefuse you anything that is reasonable; and, I think, you look as if youwould not ask anything unreasonable.”
“Sir,” said Susan, after consulting her mother’s eyes, “there is, to besure, a favour I should like to ask; it is for Rose.”
“Well, I don’t know who Rose is,” said Sir Arthur, smiling; “but, go on.”
“Ma’am, you have seen her, I believe; she is a very good girl, indeed,”said Mrs. Price. “And works very neatly, indeed,” continued Susan,eagerly, to Miss Somers; “and she and her mother heard you were lookingout for someone to wait upon you.”
“Say no more,” said Miss Somers; “your wish is granted. Tell Rose tocome to the Abbey, to-morrow morning, or, rather, come with her yourself;for our housekeeper, I know, wants to talk to you about a certain cake.She wishes, Susan, that you should be the maker of the cake for thedance; and she has good things ready looked out for it already, I know.It must be large enough for everybody to have a slice, and thehousekeeper will ice it for you. I only hope your cake will be as goodas your bread. Fare ye well.”
How happy are those who bid farewell to a whole family, silent withgratitude, who will bless them aloud when they are far out of hearing!
“How do I wish, now,” said Farmer Price, “and it’s almost a sin for onethat has had such a power of favours done him, to wish for anything more;but how I _do_ wish, wife, that our good friend, the harper was only hereat this time. It would do his old, warm heart good. Well, the best ofit is, we shall be able next year, when he comes his rounds, to pay himhis money with thanks, being all the time, and for ever, as much obligedto him as if we kept it. I long, so I do, to see him in this houseagain, drinking, as he did, just in this spot, a glass of Susan’s mead,to her very good health.”
“Yes,” said Susan, “and the next time he comes, I can give him one of myguinea-hen’s eggs, and I shall show my lamb, Daisy.”
“True, love,” said her mother, “and he will play that tune and sing thatpretty ballad. Where is it? for I have not finished it.”
“Rose ran away with it, mother, but I’ll step after her, and bring itback to you this minute,” said Susan.
Susan found her friend Rose at the hawthorn, in the midst of a crowdedcircle of her companions, to whom she was reading “Susan’s Lamentationfor her Lamb.”
“The words are something, but the tune—the tune—I must have the tune,”cried Philip. “I’ll ask my mother to ask Sir Arthur to try and find outwhich way that good old man went after the ball; and if he’s aboveground, we’ll have him back by Susan’s birthday, and he shall sithere—just exactly here by this, our bush, and he shall play—I mean, if hepleases—that same tune for us, and I shall learn it—I mean, if I can—in aminute.”
The good news that Farmer Price was to be employed to collect the rents,and that Attorney Case was to leave the parish in a month, soon spreadover the village. Many came out of their houses to have the pleasure ofhearing the joyful tidings confirmed by Susan herself. The crowd on theplay-green increased every minute.
“Yes,” cried the triumphant Philip, “I tell you it’s all true, every wordof it. Susan’s too modest to say it herself; but I tell ye all, SirArthur gave us this play-green for ever, on account of her being sogood.”
You see, at last Attorney Case, with all his cunning has not proved amatch for “Simple Susan.”